Say Cheese
by Generic Saibaman
Summary: "What are you doing, bastard?" "Recording." Rated T for suggestive themes. One shot. Romerica


The most satisfying thing about sex is the position your partner makes once it's over.

That's not to the sex itself isn't satisfying - oh no, quite the opposite - but there remains a swell of pride knowing that you are the cause for how your partner has laid out.

If there was one thing America loved, it was stroking his ego.

Slipping out from the rumpled sheets, the personification searched for his pants. Once they were located (how did they end up on the windowsill?) he dug into the pockets, fishing out his phone. He grinned slyly and flicked over to the camera app, turning the phone horizontally between his hands, and pressed record.

His grin widened at the sight before him. Southern Italy was laid out, face down, mumbling phrases that mixed between Italian and English. He slowly panned the camera across the other's body, recording every inch of skin with a satisfied hum. It wasn't that long ago that tanned - and surprisingly flexible - body was wound tight against him, fingers digging into his back and thighs wrapped securely around his waist—

"What are you doing, bastard?"

The question snapped him out of his memories and he automatically raised the phone towards the nation's face. On the screen, it captured the other's slight scowl, his eyebrows drawn down as he watched the phone in America's hand with irritation.

"Recording," America said simply, getting closer to Romano in order to get a better view of the marks adoring the man's neck.

Apparently that wasn't the answer Romano wanted to hear because his scowl deepened. In response, America's grin turned smug.

"You look exhausted," he said gleefully, pride bleeding unabashedly into his words. "Look at you all laid out like that - it's a pretty sight, really is."

"I'm exhausted because you're fucking insatiable," Romano groused in exasperation. "You have way too much fucking energy."

"You love it," was the cheeky response.

Making a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, Romano blushed heavily and closed his eyes. Arguing felt like too much work at this point.

With another hum, America went back to recording. He slowly panned the camera down; from the curve of the other's mark ridden neck, to the relaxed muscles of his shoulders, down the dip of the small of the back, and finally to the bruised hips.

"Really got ya there, huh?" America asked rhetorically, lightly skimming his fingers across the bruised skin. Romano wiggled in place for a moment, grunting.

"Nearly tore my hips off."

"Sorry."

There was a brief silence as America continued to inspect Romano's hips. Finger shaped bruises were clearly visible and he hissed sympathetically, momentarily forgetting the camera in his hand as he did so. Sensing the American's guilt - or whatever it was he was feeling because he sure as hell doubted it was pride - Romano rolled his eyes.

"It doesn't hurt."

"Really?"

"That's what I said, dammit."

"Want me to get ya anything?" America asked, lightly tracing what he hoped was soothing patterns along Romano's skin. "Ice or whatever?"

"It's fine," Romano huffed. "I'm fine. Didn't even hurt."

"But I nearly tore your hips off?"

Romano lifted his head from the pillow and sent him an unimpressed look. "I was exaggerating."

"Oh."

"Dork."

America pouted and lightly pinched Romano's ass, eliciting a startled yelp from the man. He snickered and patted it in mock apology, grinning.

"Did you record that?" Romano asked irritably, wiggling his hips as if that would magically stop America's phone from working.

"'Course! You make the cutest noises!" America cooed, kissing the small of the Italian's back and giving his ass another soft squeeze. Romano made a strange noise and blushed furiously, glaring down at the phone still pointedly aiming at him.

"Again?" he asked incredulously.

"Teenage hormones," America responded without missing a beat. "Doesn't help that you're friggin' gorgeous."

"Shut up." Romano buried his face his into his pillow to avoid the camera's gaze. He shivered at that _stupid_ tongue tracing _stupid_ circles and—

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Turn the camera off," he breathed, a soft mewl escaping him.

"Can't I—"

" _No_."

"Gotcha."

Needless to say, America was _extremely_ proud of Romano's exhausted state later that evening.


End file.
